


Five Things That Never Happened to Thomas Jefferson and John Adams

by bethfrish



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-04
Updated: 2004-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how the story doesn't go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Never Happened to Thomas Jefferson and John Adams

**1.**

It's ninety-two degrees outside, but somehow Jefferson's apartment manages to be even hotter. The sun's just set outside his window, splaying oppressive, muggy shadows over the already dim candlelight. It shouldn't be this hot, it really shouldn't, but the air's telling a different story and damn it if there's anything he can do about it. 

Jefferson leans back in his chair and taps his quill against the desk. He gets up and paces over to the other wall and back. Sits back down. Gets up again. Through the window, dusk stares blandly back at him. He can't remember when he was outside last and he's beginning to suspect that the early stages of insanity are starting to set in. The humidity is stifling, the lighting is blindingly dim, and the crumpled pages littering the floor are positively crushing. 

Jefferson has the sudden urge to hurl his inkwell at the wall and watch in silence as the ink drips into a sad little puddle in the corner. He doesn't. Instead he throws his quill down on the desk as hard as he can. It's not quite the effect he wants, but it's something, and with that he grabs his coat from the back of the chair and leaves. 

There's a tavern down the street from the State House, something Irish. O'Malley's or Sullivan's or Hartigan's. One of those, not that it matters. Jefferson eases through the door and sits in front of the bar. 

"Mr. Jefferson." 

Adams. Jefferson swears under his breath. 

Adams' numerous areas of expertise apparently cover sidling up into stools while completely avoiding detection, because Jefferson is almost certain that he wasn't there when he first sat down. 

"Mr. Jefferson." Adams motions for the barkeep to bring another round of whatever it was he was having. "Dare I ask. Have you finished your—" 

"No." 

Adams looks vaguely annoyed at being interrupted, but then, he always looks vaguely annoyed at something. 

"No," Jefferson repeats. "I have not finished our Declaration. In fact, I dare say I have not yet begun." He stares straight ahead and takes a swig of the rum that's set down in front of him. 

There's an eerie silence that's disturbingly out of character for John Adams, and Jefferson finally has to look over to make sure he heard him. Adams stares into his glass and fidgets absently with the collar of his shirt. 

"Well, Mr. Jefferson," Adams finally echoes into his drink. "I suppose one could say that ten days of planning is worth something, at least." He turns to face Jefferson and adds as an afterthought, "It _is_ safe to assume that there has been some degree of 'planning' in your week and a half of solitude?" 

Jefferson nods carefully, and some part of his mind begins to wonder if Adams isn't a little drunk. 

"Well, since we're both here in this…this _fine_ establishment," Adams embellishes sarcastically, "I'm sure you'll be obliged to join me in a drink a or two." Or three or four, Jefferson amends in his head. They tend to their rum in silence, spicy warmth spiraling down to the pit of Jefferson's stomach right after he swallows. 

"To our women," Adams says after a moment, always the first to interrupt the calm. He raises his glass into the air. "May their misery be even half as pungent as our own." 

Jefferson shifts restlessly in his seat at the thought, but obediently clinks his glass and downs the rest of his rum in one harsh swallow. 

They sit for a while in silence, Jefferson sweating against the collar of his jacket and Adams hunched over his drink. Jefferson doesn't think it could possibly be this hot at half past eight, but the body heat in the tavern is proving him uncomfortably wrong. 

The bartender keeps refilling their glasses without them having to ask, and before long Jefferson's lost track of what number drink he's on or how long he's been sitting there. Lifting his head, he peers hazily at Adams, who's whispering something into the barkeep's ear and making small motions with his hands. Jefferson smirks internally at how funny he looks, like an intoxicated squirrel. 

Before he knows what's happening, Adams is up out of his seat and pulling Jefferson out of his by the lapels. "Adams!" he manages to get out as he's led across the bar towards the back wall. "What is the meaning—" 

There's a concealed staircase in the back that he's never noticed before, and two young women are standing in the shadows, leaning against each other with a nonchalance that's too uniform not to be practiced. 

Adams clears his throat with a cough that's trying too hard not to sound nervous and lets go of the front of Jefferson's coat. 

"Sir, I…" Jefferson begins, but he doesn't know what to say after that. The curtain parts and Adams follows the women up the stairs, letting the cloth flutter back in Jefferson's face, frayed faux-velvet the color of overripe cranberries. Jefferson glances behind him, hesitance obscuring his face, like he expects some sort of verbal go ahead from someone, anyone. When nobody even looks in his direction, he can only turn and follow. 

Jefferson takes the bed on the right and lets the girl undress him, clothes falling into an undignified heap in the corner. It's not long before soft, feminine moans start penetrating the silence, possibly fake, but that's not the kind of detail that anyone involved really cares about anyway. Jefferson runs his hands across her back and clears his mind of all conscious thought; Revolution, Declaration, Martha, nothing. Just the deep, heavy breathing that's trying to push its way up his throat, low and ragged and unexpectedly desperate. 

He turns his head into the pillow as he's driven closer to the edge, watching Adams in the other bed as his girl goes down on him. Their eyes meet for a split second, and Adams' half-lidded gaze is the last thing he sees before he comes. 

  
  
  
  


**2.**

Thomson notices that something is off the moment Adams walks into the hall. He's a full twenty minutes earlier than the next person to arrive, which is not out of the ordinary for John Adams, but there's something else that's keeping the rest of the picture from lining up. The way he sits, the unreadable expression behind his eyes that threatens to shatter some deliberate façade. Something besides being twenty minutes early for a meeting that he's almost always early for anyway. Thomson suspects the real tip-off is that, after Adams sits down, he keeps completely silent for ten whole minutes after that. Which, as anyone can point out, is very, very out of the ordinary for John Adams. 

The rest of the delegates wander in as the mood strikes them, Rhode Island already half-drunk and the Deep South joined at the elbows as it shuffles through the door, a single genetic mutation of planters' ideals and unrivaled pride. Jefferson comes in almost as late as Adams is early, looking slightly rumpled and—Thomson squints—wearing the same clothing as yesterday. 

One fleeting, horrified glance from Adams and Thomson knows that they slept together. 

Hancock calls Congress to order as Jefferson slinks over to his desk, sheltered by a dual veil of sleep-deprivation and characteristic introversion. The other members of Congress have come to expect Jefferson's detached lack of interest in the rest of the world, but Thomson sees the subtle difference between being detached and being distracted, and he knows what it's from. 

Respectful silence gives way to the buzz of side conversation as Hancock goes over the morning's agenda. Adams keeps fiddling with the buttons of his waistcoat, eyes furtively glossing over the room like someone who's purposely trying to avoid looking at something specific but then does anyway. Jefferson just stares off into the distance, his face a blank slate. 

The first half hour of the morning is spent discussing the noticeable lack of representation from the colony of New Jersey. Adams scowls and makes irritated noises in the back of his throat whenever anyone finishes speaking, like it's New Jersey's fault that he can't sit still. 

After that Dickinson starts in on the state of the war, quoting statistics and reciting anecdotes that, for all anyone knows, he could be making up. Two hours later he's still talking, making slow, even circles around the desks and tables, trying to intimidate people. The Carolinas nod smugly in agreement when he passes them; Hancock looks up at the ceiling with wavering interest. 

When he gets to where Adams is seated, he leans over and rests his elbow on the desk in a deliberate and obvious invasion of personal space. "And you, Mr. Adams," he remarks casually. "You have been uncharacteristically quiet this afternoon." Adams steals a glance off to the side before meeting Dickinson's eyes. "Other…" He weighs his words for a few seconds to make sure Adams notices. "…issues on your mind?" 

Sensing discomfort the way sharks smell blood, Rutledge sashays over to join the interrogation. "Surely Mr. Adams has a wealth of opinions on the subject," he tells those members of Congress who are still awake. "Please Mr. Adams, do share with us what you make of the rising number of casualties, and the ever-diminishin' number of provisions." 

"It is my understanding," Dickinson informs him lightly, "that a private conference was organized between Mr. Jefferson and yourself in which to discuss such matters of war. Last night it was held, was it not?" 

Adams clenches his jaw. "It was. And discussion was had, whatever else you are implying." 

"It is _my_ understandin'…" Rutledge pauses to flash all of Congress a crooked, loaded smile. "…that your… _conference_ lasted through the night and well into the morning." 

Hancock looks up from his papers, startled. The expression on Adams' face is caught somewhere between denial, outrage, and embarrassment, but anyone paying any attention at all can tell that the last is the one to watch. Rutledge takes a step back from the desk, turns to Jefferson, and almost imperceptibly, he winks. Jefferson's face reddens. 

"Come Mr. Adams, Mr. Jefferson," Rutledge prompts. "Do report on what you… _discussed_ for the duration of the night, a time when most men would prefer to be sleeping. But then, who's to say that sleep was not—" 

Adams jumps out of his seat, attracting the attention of every man in Congress with a display of frayed nerves that has been three hours in the making. "Please excuse me, sir," he addresses Hancock stiffly. "I believe I am in need of some air." 

Adams is gone for the rest of the day, and Jefferson's stare become more and more vacant with every passing hour. The delegates finally file out for the night as Thomson is finishing his notes on the day's discussions. Without anyone to voice resistance, the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening were dominated by the South and its counterproductive arguments and dizzying logic. Thomson has come to realize how much cockier Rutledge and Dickinson are when there's no one there to oppose them, how much more confident they are that the pursuit of independence will end in nothing short of disaster. 

He doesn't like it. 

No, he doesn't like it at all. 

  
  
  
  


**3.**

"We will now vote on whether or not to elect a committee to further the discussion of potential supply deficits in the colony of New York. All those in favor say yea, all those opposed say nay. New Hampshire?" 

"New Hampshire says yea." 

"New Hampshire says yea. Massachusetts?" 

Silence. 

"Massachusetts?" 

Hancock looks at Thomson, and then at the empty corner where Massachusetts should be. "Where is Mr. Adams?" he demands. When nobody answers, he waves his hand at Thomson. "Just as well. Continue." 

"Massachusetts passes. Rhode Island?" 

"Rhode Island says yea." 

"Rhode Island says yea. Connecticut?" 

"Connecticut says yea." 

"Connecticut says yea. New York?" 

New York abstains. Courteously. 

Thomson recites the list by memory until: "Virginia?" 

Silence. 

"Virginia?" 

Hancock's head jerks up again. "You mean to say that Virginia is not here either?" 

Thomson shakes his head. 

"Mr. Lee has still not returned..." Hancock mutters to himself. "Where in the hell is Mr. Jefferson?" 

Again, no response. 

"Why is it that all of Congress can never be present at the same time?" Hancock asks with an exasperated sigh. 

Franklin approaches the front of the room from out of nowhere and performs a little bow in front of Hancock's desk. "As the colony of Pennsylvania will still be two strong—though for what side, I surely cannot say," he adds privately, sending a fleeting look back at Dickinson. "I should be happy to search out Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson for you." 

"Very well," Hancock sighs, mumbling something unintelligible to himself as he waves his hand at the secretary. 

Thomson clears his throat and resumes his survey. "North Carolina?" 

North Carolina yields to South Carolina over the dull thunk of Franklin's cane as he disappears through the door. 

There's no ideal route to or from either man's apartment, so he picks a direction and ends up heading towards Jefferson's. "Oh, dear lord," he mumbles at the menace that is Jefferson's staircase. Complaining rather audibly to nobody in particular, he hobbles up to the top and raps on the door with his cane. "Mr. Jefferson?" 

Silence. 

"Tom?" Franklin puts his ear against the door and listens. Nothing. "Well isn't that wonderful." Franklin frowns, eyeing the trip back down with unmistakable annoyance. 

His last resort is to kick back in the tavern down the street and tell Hancock that the search party was for naught, but before that he has to deal with the nagging obligation to try Adams' apartment, which—"Thank god."—has no stairs. 

"Hello?" Franklin raps the door with his cane again, ornamenting the wood with a series of tiny nicks. "Anyone home?" He thinks he can hear movement inside, but he isn't entirely sure. "John?" 

There's a rustle at his feet and a note appears, obviously scribbled with irritated haste. " _Go away_." Franklin chuckles and plucks it from the ground with a flourish. "Indeed I will not," he tells the door, and gives the handle a turn but it's locked. "John, let me in." 

"Leave us alone!" a voice from inside calls out. 

Franklin is about to knock again, but then freezes with his knuckles halfway to the wood. " _Us?_ " He leans his cane against the wall and rubs his chin. "Hmm." After a moment of consideration, he gives the door a polite bow and turns to leave. "Terribly sorry, John. I was not aware that you were…entertaining," he chuckles. "Or should I say, being entertained. I shall just tell Mr. Hancock that—" 

The door opens a crack and Jefferson sticks his head out. "Please tell Mr. Hancock that it is Mr. Adams' intention and my own to spend the remaining duration of this wholly pointless convention in bed. The war is fast approaching a state that is twenty yards beyond hopeless, and independence remains a goal that will be achieved neither in this, nor any other lifetime," he informs Franklin softly and calmly. "Oh yes, and also do request on our behalf that we not be disturbed. Thank you," and the door shuts with decisive click in Franklin's face. 

Unphased, Franklin yanks the handle before Jefferson can redo the bolt and jerks the door open. "Such luck," he announces, stepping inside. "I have come in search of one and instead found both." His brow furrows. "In bed. Together. As it were. Heavens, isn’t this a sight." 

Jefferson gives him a bored look as he climbs back under the covers, dropping Adams' borrowed dressing gown on the floor next to what Franklin can only presume is the rest of his clothing. His hair is coming out of its ribbon from all sides, hanging in his eyes and falling against his neck in matted tangles. His lips are swollen, his face flushed, and Franklin notices a small red mark in the dip above his clavicle before he can force himself to avert his eyes. 

The bed shifts and Adams squints into the light before burrowing back under the covers. "What do you want, Franklin?" 

Certainly not to be standing here, Franklin thinks, but instead he says, "Congress has been curious about the suspicious silence that has overtaken the city of Philadelphia. I can now tell them the reason is because its loudest resident is currently hiding from the world under a pile of bed sheets." 

"Then by all means, tell them," comes the muffled reply. 

Franklin almost goes over to yank the covers away but then, eyeing the various undergarments strewn about the room, thinks the better of it. "Come out of there, John," he commands. "I will not have a conversation with your sheets." 

Adams slowly pulls the covers off his face and leans back against his pillow. "Franklin," he sighs, "I've come to realize that this Congress is worth less than the mud on your shoes." 

"My shoes are quite clean, John." 

Adams shoots him a withering look. "We have been here one solid year and where do we stand? No one will take my proposals seriously, no one will open his mind enough to consider the facts that are as plain as daylight, no one will even _listen_ long enough to entertain the possibility of being swayed to the cause!" Adams hits the pillow that Jefferson's head is resting on with a thump. "We are tired of this endless dance! If neither our absence nor our presence makes a single ounce of difference, then Jefferson and I will do the world a great favor and confine our treason to the boundaries of this room." 

Franklin scratches his chin. "Treason against the king, John?" 

The corners of Jefferson's mouth pinch into an unwholesome grin. "Why, against God, sir. And seven times, by my count." 

Adams turns an interesting shade of embarrassed, but the lack of explicit denial leaves little room for interpretation. Franklin tries to keeps his eyes off the mark on Jefferson's neck and the train wreck of thought that will lead to how it got there. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Franklin finally yells when they move to sink back under their cave of linens. "Your insanity will cease this instant!" 

"You will leave our room this instant." Jefferson retorts hotly. 

"Oh, come now," Franklin scolds. "You expect me to believe, John, that you would lie here while the age of revolution flickers and dies before your very eyes? That you would smother a child before it has even been born? I know you, John. I know both of you. And God himself knows that we need you, despite John's piercing voice. Whatever apathy or frustration is still brewing inside of you, leave it here under that pile of clothes where I do believe your common sense must also be buried. And for the love of God men, get out of bed! Now I must return to Congress before that nuisance Dickinson sells the great state of Pennsylvania to one of the Carolinas. Later this afternoon we will undoubtedly be voting on one redundant issue or another, and if either one of you is not present, so help me God, I will bring Congress, Hancock, and his desk into this room to conduct the vote." Franklin pulls the door open. "Now when shall I tell Mr. Hancock to expect your return?" 

"Tell Mr. Hancock…" Adams begins defiantly, but the fight drops out of his voice before he can end the sentence 

"I shall tell Mr. Hancock," Franklin finishes for him, "that your private conference with the Philadelphia Committee of Defense is in its final stages, and that you and Mr. Jefferson will reconvene with us this afternoon at approximately two o'clock." 

Adams and Jefferson watch him with steely eyes as he steps through the doorway. Neither of them answers, but he heads back to give the message to Hancock just the same. 

  
  
  
  


**4.**

There's a particular moment during a sunset when the sky is stunning shade of orange, before it fades to red, to pink, to purple. Before all color disappears over the horizon and the moonlit black swallows the sky. 

Outside Jefferson's window the sun glows red-orange behind the clouds, easing the city of Philadelphia into a slow, lazy dusk. It's the kind of thing that Jefferson would find beautiful, but Jefferson isn't watching the sunset. He's sitting in the same chair he's been sitting in since he missed the sunrise this morning, holding the same quill as this morning and dipping it into the same inkwell. The parchment in front of him is different, but he hates it just as much as the one from this morning and crumples it up in exactly the same manner. 

Jefferson taps his quill against the edge of the jar and puts the tip to a fresh sheet. " _When_ ," he begins carefully, but a knock sounds at the door before he can even finish the word. Jefferson rips the parchment from the table and crushes it with one hand. 

"Jefferson!" Adams calls out, letting himself in without waiting for an answer. "How goes our Declaration? Is it finished?" Looking around expectantly, a crunch under his shoe calls his attention to the sea of paper threatening to consume the floor. 

Jefferson lifts his head and weaves his fingers into his hair like he's going to tug it out. 

"Jefferson? What is the meaning of this?" Adams manages to look personally affronted, and Jefferson has to remind himself that he probably is. "Have you not finished? Have you…" He kicks at a ball of paper and ink with his foot and sends it skittering into the corner. "Have you even _started_?" 

Lying to John Adams is something akin to asking a lion not to eat you. Not so much unwise as unhelpful. "Several times, sir," Jefferson tells him frankly, letting out a small puff of frustration. "But if you'd like to lay eyes on any one of those beginnings I'm afraid you're about to be sorely disappointed." 

Adams drifts over to the window so calmly that at first Jefferson thinks he must have only responded in his head. The sky outside is quickly fading through the infinite stages of violet, approaching darkness as the sun seizes the last remnants of light and disappears with them over the horizon. 

Turning in his chair, he glances up at Adams' reflection in the windowpane. "Mr. Adams, I—" 

"You mean to tell me," Adams mutters icily back through the glass, "that you have been sitting here an entire week and have only…" Spinning around, he sends another failed attempt bouncing across the floor with his walking stick. "… _this_ to show for it?" 

"Sir, it must be obvious that I have at least been trying," Jefferson insists softly. "It is not as though—" 

Adams makes a face like he's talking to someone who truly believes that the world is flat. " _Trying_? Good God, man! If this is what you call trying I would hate to be present for your definition of failure! What is the problem, damn it?!" 

Jefferson shifts apprehensively in his chair and waits for the other man's breathing to return to its normal rhythm. When that doesn't happen, he continues. "Well sir, I…I suppose I have just been feeling rather distracted. Unable to concentrate." 

"Distracted?" Adams repeats in a pinched voice. "Distracted by what? Your table? The patterns in the wood?" He raps the window with his fist. "Shall I have this removed for you?" 

Jefferson's eyes narrow but he keeps his voice even. "Sir, you must understand that I have not seen my wife in nearly six months. One longs for home after such—" 

"Ah," Adams interrupts, agitated frown transforming into an disturbingly agitated smirk. "Now the problem becomes clear." There's a humorless chuckle that resonates, awkward and hollow, in the silence. "Too long away from the comforts of home, Mr. Jefferson?" The corners of his mouth twitch. "And let us both abandon the pretense that it is simply your wife's cooking to which we are referring." 

Jefferson watches Adams warily as he comes up behind his chair. "I…don't know that I take your meaning, sir." 

"Ah, but I believe you do." He can feel Adams behind him even when he turns around, phantom breaths grazing his hair, warm and moist and maybe not even really there, but Jefferson can feel them like he can feel his own. "Elusive beast, concentration," Adams says, then leans forward and presses his hand against Jefferson's thigh. 

Jefferson's breath hitches in the back of his throat and he can feel jump of his pulse when it ripples through his body. "Mr. Adams…" he protests weakly, but the sentiment dies halfway from his lips. The fingers that were running absent circles over his thigh are now slowly inching up to untuck his shirt, pulling insistently at the folds until it hangs loosely over his lap. One at a time, the buttons on his breeches are undone, and he doesn't realize how hard he is until Adams slips his hand between his legs. 

It doesn't take much for him to come, long and hard, his breath escaping from between his lips in short, uneven gasps. When Adams finally pulls away, Jefferson falls back against the chair numbly, breeches low on his hips and shirt carelessly shoved up against his chest. "John…" 

When Adams comes around from behind him his face is flushed, and Jefferson can plainly see that he is not the only one to suffer from the occasional bout of distraction. 

"John, I…did you…do you—" 

Adams clips him off, pulling a handkerchief from out of his waistcoat. "Save it, Mr. Jefferson," he says curtly, wiping his hand off on the silk. "You have no further excuse for your lack of progress. Which is why I shall expect to actually see some when next I return." 

Jefferson sits up and watches him move towards the door in a foggy state of disbelief. "But sir!" he insists, voice unnaturally high and threatening to break in a way that he isn't used to and doesn't like. 

Adams turns around and braces himself in the doorway, his breathing so even that both of them know it has to be forced. "To work, Jefferson." And he leaves before any more of his body can betray him. 

Jefferson flinches when the door slams, even though he's expecting it, and for the rest of the night he sits in the same chair, staring at the wood patterns in the table. It takes two more days after that before he can think of anything to write. 

  
  
  
  


**5.**

It's ninety-two degrees outside, but somehow Adams' apartment manages to be even hotter. The sun set hours ago and a single candle glows silently on his bedside table, wavering meekly in the too-humid air. While the rest of Philadelphia sleeps, Adams paces back and forth from one end of the room to the other. Sits down. Gets up again. 

Judging from the position of the moon, he thinks it must be well after midnight, but he's been tuning the clock out for so long that when he finally listens for the chimes they slip through the night unnoticed. 

The last time he was outside was when Congress adjourned for the day, the final exit before the end-all vote. Franklin remained passively confident, Dr. Hall lingered in the doorway but then left without saying anything, and Dickinson bid the room good evening with a look that said, _This is it you know. Tomorrow this ends. My way, not yours._

Adams has the sudden urge to hurl something at the wall, but there's nothing around to hurl. His desk is clear, his bed is still made, and he discovered months ago that the end result of kicking chairs is more closely linked to pain than to satisfaction. Instead he stands there, staring out into the night and letting a hundred thousand thoughts compete for his attention. Before any of them can win out, he grabs his coat off the back of the chair and leaves. 

There's a tavern down the street from where he's staying. Something Irish. They all are. Adams pulls the door open, idly scanning the room. There aren't many people left this late at night. The bartender, a few drunks, all but passed out at the counter. Two women in the back corner give Adams a sly, appraising look when he walks in. He ignores them. 

"Mr. Adams?" 

Jefferson. Adams wonders how he didn't notice him there, gangly limbs and unmistakable shock of red hair pulled back away from his face. 

"Ah, Mr. Jefferson," Adams says conversationally, taking the seat next to him. He waves a hand at the barkeep and has a glass of rum brought to him. "Has sleep eluded you as well?" 

Jefferson nods, staring serenely into his cup as he swirls its contents around with one hand. Adams follows the movements of his wrist, vaguely entranced as it works slow, hypnotizing circles with the rim of the glass. He can't quite tell how many drinks Jefferson has already had, and when he thinks about it, he doesn't know if he can ever remember actually seeing Jefferson drunk at all. 

"It's my first glass, if you're wondering." One side of Jefferson's mouth quirks up into a shadow of a smile. 

"Oh." Adams takes a swallow. "I wasn't." 

They sit for a while in silence. Jefferson gazes absently out into space, as calmly as if he were watching a particularly delightful opera, or reading a new and fascinating medical journal. Adams takes steady, nervous sips of his rum, wincing when he swallows too much too fast. He wedges his heel into one of the rungs on the barstool, his leg beginning to twitch in some long forgotten nervous habit. Jefferson looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. 

"John?" 

Adams sets his glass down with a thunk and widens his eyes in a questioning, _what?_ Jefferson motions to his leg with a tiny jerk of his chin. Adams looks down as Jefferson gives a hum of amusement. 

They turn back to their drinks, but it's all of thirty seconds before Adams bangs his down on the counter, sending cheap rum sloshing up its sides. "Good God, man! How can you appear so relaxed?!" 

Jefferson thinks, then gives a slight lift of his shoulders. 

"I mean, my God! Tomorrow we vote on independence! Independence, Jefferson! _Your_ Declaration! Does that not even phase you?" Adams leans against the counter, holding the weight of his head up with the heels of his hands. "We are still completely and helplessly split down the middle. The South will not concede until they have completely obscured our intentions. They follow one another like…like…" He lowers his head down onto the counter as the metaphor eludes him. "And then there's Dickinson!" he cries, jerking up again. "Good God, what are we to do about him?!" 

Jefferson swirls his drink and listens as Adams' tirade swells and deflates, privately musing over the unwanted attention they would be drawing if anyone in the vicinity were sober enough to notice. 

"How are we to cast our final vote when we are not even in agreement over the outcome? It is surely sabotage! We will fail, Jefferson! Independence will fail, and with it the revolution that has been a decade in the making, crushed by our own internal opposition!" Adams lifts his head from his hands and stares helplessly at Jefferson, eyes dark and too tired to hide their apprehension. 

Jefferson gazes back at him, watching out of the corner of his eye when his leg starts twitching again. Adams inhales as if he's going to continue, but Jefferson leans forward and puts his fingers over his lips to silence him. "We will not fail," he tells him gently, moving his hand to cup the curve of his jaw. 

Neither of them moves, breathes, until Adams gives a slow nod, face warm where Jefferson's hand is. 

"We won't," Jefferson repeats, and lowers his hand into his lap. 

"It's late," Adams says after a moment, startled when his voice comes out dry and scratchy. He clears his throat. "We should both be well rested for tomorrow. The second of July." He stands up and fishes around for his coin purse. "A day to go down in history." 

Jefferson peers into his rum. "Indeed." 

Adams presses a coin onto the counter and brushes a flurry of invisible crumbs from the front of his coat. "Will you be retiring as well?" he asks, signs of sleep pushing into his voice. He's suddenly aware of how late it must be. 

Jefferson slides from his stool and puts a coin next to the one already on the counter. "We're all scared, John," he says softly, and heads for the door before Adams has the chance to say anything in return. 

They leave the tavern together, and when Adams goes into his apartment for the night, Jefferson follows him inside. He folds their clothes over a chair while Adams hunts around for a spare nightshirt. It's much too small for Jefferson, but he puts it on anyway, thinking that it smells vaguely of stale violets as he slips it over his head. 

Adams pulls the covers back and waits for Jefferson to crawl in next to him. Neither seems to notice that the temperature in the room is a stifling ninety-two degrees, and the blanket is pulled up around their shoulders like it's anything but summer in Philadelphia. 

They settle onto their sides, blinking at each other in the darkness when Adams puts the candle out. It's not long before their eyelids begin to lower, lashes fluttering in that self-conscious way that means sleep is inevitable. Adams yawns, and right before he falls asleep, Jefferson reaches out to intertwine their fingers underneath the covers. 

Adams awakes the next morning to the haunting chimes of a distant clock, seven lonely notes carried away in the morning's breeze. He closes his eyes to the sunlight beginning to seep in through the window, feeling Jefferson's hand against his, warm and still and perfect as he sleeps. 


End file.
